Depression stalks me before every birth. The existential questions taunt me over and over again. Why are we here? Do we matter? Where are we going? Death becomes a trusted friend. For I know, there will be a day when I don’t have to deal with these questions anymore. While I still take the pills, existential crises are not easily cured. Hope is difficult to cultivate in a world of doubt. I just keep searching.
The snow piles up. I have been here before. In the cold firm wetness of the precipitation, I feel the absence of God. Do you care about me? Why am I here? The moisture falls. Are you there? I hear the crunch of snow. Could that be God finally walking up to cure me? I hear the birds chirp. Is God taunting me with such close flight? I hear a car about to drive up. Is it ridiculous to wonder if God will pull up in a car? I only know the void of absence. People are dying and where are you? Love seems like a charade when you let the innocent be slaughtered. I guess a spiritual relationship is like lying prostrate in the cold wet snow and not knowing whether you are going to freeze to death before God shows up.
The diagnosis and treatment of my Bipolar Disorder only helps soften my reaction to these questions, but it doesn’t make them go away. I guess I am able to remain sure of my love of God through my experience of longing for God. I have only known for sure a few times in my life. I could use one of those moments. In the name of the shadow, the whisper and the dream.